


Once Bitten

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Consensual Kink, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes to bite and fortunately Draco likes to be bitten.  This story is based on Ships_Harry's oh-so-hot <a href="http://serpentinelion.livejournal.com/228861.html">Bite Me</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Bitten

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bite Me](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8740) by The artist is Ships_Harry (on LJ). 



> This was for H/D Remix 2011 (on LJ)
> 
>  
> 
> [My LJ post](http://frayach.livejournal.com/85676.html)

You walk with people on busy streets. You play Quidditch on the weekends with your friends. You mill around at parties. You ride with people on the Tube. You sit in crowded restaurants. You work with numerous colleagues. You visit shops and pubs and cafés.

You wonder: are any of these people like me? You wonder: what are _their_ dirty secrets?

You wonder: do they crave to sink their teeth into flesh until it gives way and their mouths fill with blood? Do they think that they, too, might die if their urges cannot be satisfied? Do they wake to wet sheets and a forbidden dream lingeringly like mist on a lake?

Or are you utterly alone?

* * * *

Your first date with Malfoy ends with an argument over the pros and cons of the government’s plans to gentrify Knockturn Alley, which results in Malfoy throwing his serviette on his plate and storming out of the restaurant.

But he owls you in the morning with a terse little note. _Let’s try again_.

Your second date with Malfoy ends on good terms, despite Malfoy’s mortifying treatment of the waiter.

Your third date with Malfoy ends with a kiss that could’ve turned into much more than a kiss if it hadn’t been in public and raining. When Malfoy pulls away, he avoids your eyes. It’s weird and off-putting. He Apparates after a few disjointed and mumbled words. You stand there getting wet and wondering if your breath smells bad.

Your fourth date with Malfoy is the worst yet. You encounter a few of your friends when the two of you are walking along the Embankment. You’d been holding hands and both of you let go as if you’d been stung. Malfoy doesn’t even stop walking, and you’re left stammering apologies and half-arsed explanations. Malfoy keeps walking and doesn’t even slow down, making you run after him. When you finally catch up with him, he says he’s going home and you can go “…have fun with your beloved riff-raff.” The two of you exchange a few choice words. You Apparate home before you punch him in the face.

You expect never to hear from him again and figure it’s for the best, but then he owls you with two tickets to next weekend’s Wasps/Cannons match along with an annoying presumptuous little note: _See you there_.

 

The afternoon of the match is freezing and your Warming Charms scarcely make a difference. You and Malfoy both favour different teams, and Malfoy’s wins. He’s such an arsehole about it, you turn down his offer to go to a wine bar afterwards. Plus, you wonder: what kind of snobby prat goes to a “wine bar” after a Quidditch match? You begin to think the two of you are hopelessly incompatible, but then he invites you to dinner at his place, and no matter how much you may want to, you can’t turn him down.

You want him too much.

Malfoy’s flat is filled with pretentious antiques that look vaguely illegal, but the meal is excellent. You talk about boring things, trying to avoid any topic that might spark an argument. Malfoy even laughs at a few of your jokes, and you start feeling comfortable and relaxed. You drink two glasses of wine, but turn down a third. You’re hoping the evening ends in bed, and you want to be able to…perform.

After lingering over dessert for far too long, you realise that, for whatever reason, you’re going to have to be the one to get things started. You stand up from the table, walk to one of his settees, sit down, and pat your lap. You don’t want to risk the chance of him reconsidering. After a too-long moment, he approaches slowly as if you’re a Hungarian Horntail and straddles your hips.

The kissing is deliciously lazy. You explore each other’s mouths. When you begin to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly, he reaches down and pulls your shirt free from your trousers and pushes it up to your armpits, baring your chest. You’d expected his hands to be cool, but they’re not. They’re as warm as his mouth. He caresses your exposed skin, and you begin rocking more forcefully. You can feel his erection against yours. You reach up and unbutton his shirt. His nipples are pink. Your mouth waters. You pinch them both at the same time, and he inhales sharply. You pinch them again, rolling them between your fingers, and he tips his head back exposing his throat. You want so much to lean forward to kiss it sloppily and open-mouthed. You push his shirt off his shoulders…

You know you can’t kiss his bare skin, even though you long to with every fibre of your being. The urge to bite would be too great, too overwhelming. You want him so much – so much that you don’t want to scare him away. The nameless men you take home with you from the club are another story. You’ll never see them again, and you don’t want to. But this is different. You don’t want to fuck it up by giving in to your perverted fantasies.

You reach down between your bodies to rub his cock, and he pulls out of a deepening kiss. “I think we should stop here for tonight,” he says.

You’re not sure you heard him correctly and ask him to repeat himself. He blushes. “You heard me,” he says.

You stare at him until he looks away. “I’m not ready for us to sleep together,” he says.

You feel tears of frustration sting your eyes, so you close them. You’re so hard it hurts. You want to plead with him to at least suck you off, but he’s squirming out of your arms and buttoning his shirt.

You’re angry but decide not to show it. He’d insinuated there would be a time when you’ll sleep together, and you don’t want to jeopardise that, even though you think fleetingly of casting _Incarcerous_ and having your way with him.

You stand and are embarrassed by the way your cock pushes out your trousers. You wish you’d worn jeans. Malfoy makes a point out of not looking and goes to the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink before you leave?” he asks. You figure that’s polite aristocratic code for “Go the hell home now.”

You decline, but you do ask him where the loo is. Once there, you undo your trousers, spit in your hand, and wank furiously, squeezing the head of your cock until it’s a deep angry purple. When you come you aim at one of Malfoy’s expensive looking towels and leave it there to dry. Let him wonder what the hell that crusty stuff is when he dries himself after a shower. Soiling a towel is petty, but you are too disappointed and frustrated to care.

Before you step into his fireplace, he gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, and you want to punch him. When you get back home, you decide to get drunk and later wake up in your bed with all your clothes on, even your shoes. Your shirt smells like the cologne Malfoy was wearing. You scrub your face with your palms and vow never to see him again.

 

When you receive the owl five days later, you wonder momentarily if it’s a Howler. Fortunately it’s not because you’d have to do a lot of explaining to your Auror partner. You unfold the parchment with trepidation.

_What the fuck is your problem?_

You goggle at the elegant handwriting for so long that your partner asks “bad news?”

Your fingers itch to pick up a quill and write. _What the hell do you think, you bloody cock-tease?_ Instead you write: _Nothing. What’s yours?_

The owl returns almost immediately. _You are an arsehole. Meet me for a pint at your stupid pub after work_.

You order a pint of lager at the bar and walk over to Malfoy’s table. He can’t meet your eyes when you slide into the chair across from him and unwind your scarf. His cheeks are pink; it’s obvious that the glass of whisky in front of him is not his first.

“You know,” he says, “it’s proper form to extend a return invitation to the person who’d had you to his home for dinner.”

You stare into your pint glass.

“I wasn’t sure if said person would accept said invitation.”

He glares at you. “Just because I wouldn’t suck your dick?”

You shrug. “Didn’t seem like you were interested.”

He’s still glaring at you. “I guess you didn’t notice I was as hard as a fucking rock”.

You give him a what-the-fuck look. “Then why’d you practically push me into your fireplace?”

He presses his lips together, and you think he’s not going to answer you, but then he says with a hint of bitterness: “Because you’re Harry bloody Potter, and I’m not going to be just some fan that falls at your feet. We used to loathe each other, or have you conveniently forgotten that little bit of shared history?”

“So,” you say. “How long do you plan on being a cock-tease…?”

“I’m not being a cock-tease!”

You drain your glass and start putting on your coat and scarf.

“Where are you going?” he asks, looking panicky.

“Home,” you say gruffly.

“Christ, Harry…”

So it’s 'Harry' now.

He’s looking at you with a pleading expression. “Can we at least go get some dinner?”

But you can’t. This was a bad idea from the beginning, and you tell him so. You turn to leave, but he grabs your sleeve.

“I’m not doing this to be a tease,” he says. “I’m doing this because… Look, apparently unlike you, sex is a big deal to me.”

A _Lumos_ comes on over your head.

“You’re a virgin,” you say in an awed whisper. You’ve never been with a virgin – or anyone even close to being a virgin. You don’t even think you _know_ a virgin.

He blushes angrily. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you are, aren’t you?”

He neither confirms nor denies; he just stands there looking mortified and furious.

“Bloody hell,” you say. “I…I had no idea…with women too? Or just men?”

“Both,” he snarls. “And while we’re humiliating me, I’ll just go ahead and admit that no one has ever even touched my dick and vice versa.”

You are agog…and completely at a loss for words. “Malfoy…er, Draco, you’re twenty-five years old!” you exclaim. You want to add “and bloody gorgeous.”

“I didn’t know that – thanks for informing me.”

He’s closing up. There’s even a twitch in his upper lip that presages a snotty little curl. It’s not a good look on him.

“Draco,” you say, reaching for his hand. He yanks it away.

“Stop being all solicitous and condescending. It’s not like I have a deadly disease. Plus,” he adds, “weren’t you leaving?”

You take a deep breath. “Not without you,” you say and reach for his hand again. This time he doesn’t pull it away.

 

You ask him to wait about fifteen minutes before Flooing from the pub to your flat. You want to go ahead of him to do a quick tidy-up. You hadn’t expected him to come home with you. As soon as you step out of your fireplace, you draw your wand and hurriedly wash the stack of dishes in the sink and put them away, and then…because just maybe…you change the bedclothes and throw your laundry in the basket.

Draco arrives and looks everywhere except at you. You don’t have many furnishings, but the few things you have were carefully chosen.

“You have a nice place,” he says with only a small quaver in his voice. “I wasn’t really expecting that.”

You decide to ignore his little jab and instead attribute it to nerves. “Thanks,” you say and go to the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

“Just water,” he says.

You bring him a glass of water and see that he’s still standing near the fireplace with his cloak on. He looks so uncomfortable that he makes you feel uncomfortable too.

“Please,” you say as casually as you can, “sit down.”

You take his cloak and drape it over the back of the armchair, momentarily cursing yourself for not having a coat rack. He sits down stiffly, and you wish he’d asked for something stronger than water.

“Are you hungry?” you ask. “I can make something…”

“No, thank you,” he says.

You feel intensely uncomfortable. “Look, Draco,” you say, “we don’t have to…”

“I know we don’t,” he snaps. “But I want to. So, let’s just get it over with, okay?”

You bristle. “Is that what you think it’s going to be like? Something you just have to close your eyes and endure?”

He doesn’t respond, but he looks at you defiantly. You interpret that as a good sign.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

“I think we’ve already decided that I’m not new to kissing like I am to everything else.”

 _Everything else_. Your brain nearly explodes with the implications behind those two words. You close your eyes and barely suppress a groan. Your cock is already straining against your jeans. You even feel a little bit faint.

“Well, can I?” you ask, and he nods. You sit down beside him and turn his head until your lips find his. There’s not even an instant’s pause before he opens his mouth and welcomes your tongue.

There are kisses and then there are _kisses_. This is most definitely a _kiss_. Your body trembles with the effort to restrain yourself. You kiss him deeply and slowly until he drops his defences and turns in your arms. You can feel him gripping handfuls of your jumper.

The kissing goes on a long time, slowly building in intensity. His arms tighten around you. You pull back just long enough to ask if you can touch him. He nods his answer.

You start with his hair, running your fingers through it. It’s fine but there’s a lot of it and it smells good. You kiss him behind the ears, and he inhales sharply. You make a mental note to remind yourself that it’s clearly one of his (hopefully numerous) erogenous zones. He murmurs your name as you fumble with the knot in his tie and reaches up to help. You use it to pull him toward you and into a hungry kiss.

Slowly, you unbutton his shirt. His throat and chest are flushed in arousal. You stop worrying that he’s going to end this at any second. You play with his nipples, lightly rubbing your palms over them until they’re hard. Bending slightly, you take them in your mouth, one at a time, and gently suck. He weaves his fingers into your hair and holds your head in place. His chest rapidly rises and falls with shallow breaths, and you suck a little bit harder, making him arch his back and struggle to get closer to your mouth. He tastes so good, like sugar and salt dissolving on your tongue. You ache to sink your teeth into his skin. How much longer can you go without biting him?

You don’t stop licking and sucking his nipples as, slowly, you let your hand slip lower and cover his belly. It’s taut with tension. You raise your hand to your mouth and suck on a finger. You return your hand to his belly and trace around the indent of his navel. He squirms and laughs breathlessly. You trace your fingers down the trail of light blond hair until it disappears into his trousers. You want to reach between his legs and gently squeeze, but you’re going to wait. There will be plenty of time to lavish his cock with attention later.

You pull out of your embrace and slip to your knees in front of him, insinuating yourself between his spread thighs. One after the other, you untie and remove his shoes, massaging his feet as he hums his appreciation. He’s wearing expensive black socks that look good against the pale skin of his calves. By this point, your mouth is watering. You’re craving a bite – just a little one. You won’t break the skin; you just want to feel the swell of muscle between your teeth and lick the crescent of tiny bruises you leave behind.

You bite his calf gently, and he releases his first moan and thrusts his hips upward in search of friction. Your breathing grows shallow to the point of light-headedness. You’d half expected him to slap your face. You bite his other calf, and he moans again, spreading his thighs even farther apart. His muscles are firm and flex at the first hint of pain, but the sounds he makes are drenched in sex, and his toes curl in the rug. He whimpers but not in discomfort. Even in your wildest dreams you would never have imagined he’d respond this way.

You decide to leave both his socks and his shirt on, but you slip the shirt off his shoulders. They’re too gorgeous to keep covered. Moving quickly so he won’t have time to change his mind, you unbuckle his belt and undo his trousers. He lifts his hips off the couch when you pull them down and off.

When you look up at him, you see that his eyes are squeezed shut, as though he’s anticipating some kind of painful medical procedure. You place your hands on his knees and spread his thighs apart until you have an unfettered view of his cock and balls. They’re perfect. His balls are tight and round, and his dark pink cock twitches against a patch of blond curls. You cup his balls and feel him flinch, but he weaves his fingers into your hair again and holds your head where it is. He’s breathing fast through his nose, and you can smell the warmth of his skin.

You start with just your breath. You blow on his hardening cock, watching the head start to emerge from the foreskin. It’s shiny and a pearl of liquid oozes from the slit. He spreads his knees as far apart as he can. You look up at his face.

“Can I suck you?” you ask, and he nods his head sharply although his eyes are still closed.

The instant you take the head of his cock into your mouth, he cries out and his whole body tenses and then starts to tremble. You’ve never before had such a reaction from any of the men you’ve been with. You tighten your lips and slip your tongue under his foreskin. He lets out a sound that’s like a cross between a groan and a squeak.

His balls tighten when you cup them in your palm. You tenderly roll his testicles between your fingers as you take his cock deeper into your mouth. He’s holding your head where it is again, but this time not gently. The realisation that he’s never done this before hits you like a Bludger. You’re his first. No matter what happens, you will always be his first.

He’s going to come too quickly. You can feel it in the way his body struggles against itself as he tries not to thrust. You pull his whole length into to your mouth and suck him for a moment before pulling back. His chest is heaving. He opens his eyes and gives you the most pleading look you’ve ever seen.

“It’ll feel better if you delay it as long as you can,” you say. Tears of desperation shimmer in his eyes, and you feel a fleeting moment of sweet revenge for the other night, thinking _now you know how it feels, you cock-teasing prat_. You lean forward and give the head of his cock a chaste little kiss.

“I think we should stop here for tonight,” you say, pulling away. His hand is Seeker quick when it reaches out to grab your collar.

“Don’t even joke about it,” he says breathlessly. “I _will_ Stun you. It’s the only offensive spell I can do wandlessly.”

“Then it’s a good thing I can get out of a Stunner wandlessly,” you say with a smirk. “First week of standard Auror training.”

He actually laughs, and you feel something loosen in your chest. You realise you’d been half-convinced everything would end in a hail of hexes, but now you know it won’t. Maybe a slap, but not a duel.

His eyes are glued to yours as you stand and pull your jumper off. Your hands drop to your waist as you undo your belt, open your jeans and push both them and your pants over your hips and down your legs, until you can step out of them. Your feet are already bare, you are completely naked. His eyes drop, and he stares at your cock, which is so hard that it’s pointing upward. You run your hand from your chest to your cock and give it a few light open-handed strokes. You stop when you feel your balls tighten. You’ll need to be careful too; otherwise you’re going to come far too soon.

His gaze feels like a caress as you walk slowly towards him until you’re standing between his spread thighs. Your cock bobs right in front of his face. You’re amazed when, without hesitation, he grips your shaft and opens his mouth. His lips are tentative, and he doesn’t take you deep, but nonetheless it’s one of the best feelings you’ve ever experienced. You gently hold his head; you don’t want to gag him and turn him off blow jobs. You moan his name encouragingly, letting him know he’s doing everything right. He takes your cock a little bit deeper and swirls his tongue around the head, just as you’d done to him. His mouth feels too good, and you have to pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him by way of explanation when he gives you a perplexed look as though he’s worried he did something wrong. “I’m not ready yet.”

He holds your hips between his hands and blows on your wet cock. The sensation is far more intense than you’d imagined it could be. When he kisses and licks the slit, you shudder all over.

“Can we get in my bed?” you ask breathlessly, and he nods as though he’s in a dream. You take his hand and lead him from the room. Once there, he strips off his socks and his shirt. When he turns, you notice the intricate many-coloured dragon on his back and you feel a rush of arousal. It makes you even more light-headed than you already are. You lie on the bed and reach for his hand. When your fingers twine together, you pull him down to join you.

“We don’t have to have sex,” you say.

“What if I want to,” he replies defiantly.

You pull him close and kiss him. His cock presses against yours. You groan. You want him so much.

You want to feel his skin between your teeth and taste his blood.

There’s a good chance he’ll run away, and part of you doesn’t want to risk your relationship to fulfill your darkest fantasies, but another part of you thinks _maybe because he’s a virgin, he’ll think it’s just one of the things you do_.

You prop yourself on your elbow and take a deep breath before filling your mouth with his shoulder and biting hard – hard enough to leave bruises. You pull away and blow on the marks you left, drying the spit as though you’re a sculptor blowing dust off your newest creation.

As you’d known he would, he cries out and flinches away, but instead of jumping off the bed and struggling to put on his clothes, he groans loudly and says your name. You do it again and get the same response. You look down at his cock, and it’s even harder than before.

Your head is spinning, and you bite him again and again, this time hard enough to draw blood. Each time you wound him, you lap at the marks like a cat laps up milk. You taste blood and sweat on your tongue, and it makes you dizzy. You bite his neck, his thigh, the muscles in his shoulders.

By this time, he’s pumping his cock, his back arched and his body on the verge of orgasm.

“Please,” you murmur, grasping his wrist to still him, and he whimpers. “I want to fuck you.”

“Yes,” he whispers, “but don’t make me wait too long, Potter.”

“Or what?” you reply, but as you knew he would, he’s doesn’t answer. He’s lost in all the new sensations he’s experiencing.

You wordlessly open the drawer of your bedside table and Summon a jar of lube. You cover your fingers and reach between his legs and beneath his balls. He flinches and moves away when you breach him.

“Hurts,” he says, which rather bemuses you. One would think that being bitten hard enough to bleed would be far more painful than having a single finger gently inserted in your arsehole. Reluctantly, you pull it out.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he says, “but maybe if you bit me while you’re doing it…”

You can hardly bear the rush of desire that floods your veins. You sink your teeth into his neck like a vampire and bite down hard at the same instant you push your finger into his tight opening. His back snaps of the bed, and he cries out. You bite him again and bury your finger past the knuckle.

He’s sweating, and his fringe is damp. His lips are swollen from all the kissing. You look at him, and he stares into your eyes with an expression of helplessness. You murmur his name before biting the other side of his neck and burying your finger as far as possible.

He’s writhing with what must be a hundred sensations. You crook your finger and rub his prostate. His legs flop apart, and he grips the sheet.

“I can’t…” he stammers.

“What?” you ask.

“Take much more of this,” he gasps. “Put your cock in me.”

You shake your head. “You’re not ready yet. I can assure you that my cock is much bigger than my finger.”

He smiles fleetingly before he squeezes his eyes shut when you rub his prostate again.

You can tell that he’s crossed that invisible line between pleasure and the agonising need for release. You pull your finger out, but before he can protest, you press in two fingers and simultaneously bite his chest. He cries out as his body accepts both simultaneous intrusions of teeth and fingers.

“You can bite me harder, you know,” he says brokenly, and you do, tasting blood on your tongue while at the same time rubbing his prostate. His back arches off the bed causing your fingers to slip out. When he realises what he’s done, he sits up and grasps your wrist and shoves your fingers back into his arse. It’s raw and undignified – so unlike Draco with his clothes on. You begin moving your fingers in and out of him more quickly, making a delicious wet squishy sound.

You feel like you could stop here and wank with one hand while the fingers of your other hand fuck him to orgasm. You know you could; simply blowing on his cock while you fingered him would be enough friction to tip him over the edge. He’s gripping fistfuls of the sheet beneath him, and his head’s thrown back. You lean over and bite the skin around his nipple and use your tongue at the same time to lick it until it’s hard.

He cries out; if he’d meant to speak, his words were unintelligible. Tears of pain and pleasure dampened his eyelashes. You lick away their salty heat and continue to pump your fingers in and out of his gradually loosening hole.

“It’s still going to hurt when I put this in you,” you say, gesturing at your cock with a nod of your head.

“I’ve seen your dick,” he gasps. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile and kiss him. “I’m just warning you.”

“Then bite me when you do it,” he replies breathlessly.

“Hold your knees against your chest,” you tell him, and when he pauses, you inform him that things have progressed far past the point of modesty. When he does as you instruct, you look down at your fingers and watch them pull out and then disappear in his arse again with that gorgeous sloppy sound.

“Oh, god,” he moans, and his cock fills his navel with pre-come. You lean down and lick it up, and just as you finish his cock fills it again. It makes your head spin, and you bite his skin, sucking his navel into your mouth.

It finally happens: you can’t wait another second and withdraw your fingers from his clinging channel before moving between his thighs, which tighten around your waist. You search for his opening with the head of your cock, and because it’s still so tight and you’re so wet, you slip off it again and again. At last your cock catches, and you push your hips forward, feeling his arsehole giving way to your persistent intrusion. You trap his hands in yours and raise them over his head, exposing his unbitten forearms, and just as you bury your cock to the balls in his body, you sink your teeth into his flesh.

He shouts and then starts thrusting up when you thrust down. Your eyes lock on his. You figure the two of you must look the same – wide-eyed with the shock of too much pleasure. He reaches up and touches your lips with trembling fingers. Then he pulls them away and shows them to you. They’re red with blood – his blood. He looks at them, and for the first time, you see a flicker of something like fear . . . or perhaps awe in his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he holds his fingers up to your mouth and watches intently as you lick them clean.

You momentarily lose your mind and ride him hard, forgetting to be gentle like you’d meant to be. You’re shaking, and so is he. You’re going to come. You’ve reached that point where you can’t turn back. It’s too soon, but you can’t help it. You rise to your knees and instinctively he moves his ankles to rest on your shoulders. You’re not looking in his eyes anymore; you’re watching your cock moving in and out of him, wet and shiny with lube. You’ve never hungered for release so much as you do right now, and when it happens, you hear yourself making helpless noises that sound like sobs.

You’re completely winded, but you see that he hasn’t come yet, and he’s covering his face with his hands as though he’s fighting back tears. You move until your head is between his thighs and bite the skin just above his pubic hair. He cries out brokenly, and his hips snap up reflexively. He’s all animal instinct now. He’d sell his soul to the Devil for release.

You swallow his cock in one swift gulp and let him thrust his way to orgasm. His movements are ragged and graceless, and he pummels the back of your throat. It takes only a few seconds before you’re swallowing one hot spurt of semen after another. His hands are clutching clumps of your hair, holding you in place as he empties himself down your throat with a hoarse cry.

At last his hips still, and he slowly lets go of your hair. You continue to suck him until he reaches down and smacks your head to still you. He must be achingly sensitive.

 _Harry_ , he murmurs and then murmurs it again. _Harry_.

You crawl up until you’re face to face. He looks like he used to after a particularly taxing Quidditch match; you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing of you.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, brushing his damp hair out of his face.

“Exhausted,” he replies with a sleepy smile.

You return the smile and kiss him lingeringly.

“Worth the wait?”

He closes his eyes and doesn’t move even a muscle when you pull the duvet over the both of you.

“Yeah,” is all he says, and you smile. Apparently you’ve fucked all the snark right out of him. You lean down and kiss his cheek. The red mark you leave behind is in the shape of your lips as though you were wearing lipstick. You look at the mark for a long time as you fall toward something that could be love if you let it.

 

* * * *

 

You attend birthday parties. You train dozens of recruits. You stand in long, slowly-moving queues for the Ministry building’s public Floos. You still play Quidditch on the weekends with your friends. You are on the board of directors for several charities. You have a seat in the Wizengamot.

You wonder: is anyone else as lucky as I am? You wonder: have they found the only other person in the world who needs what you crave, who wants what you want to give him, who loves the way blood looks smeared on your sheets?

You wonder, but you don’t really care. Perhaps their perversion is the desire to be free of perversion.

And if so, you feel sorry for them. The poor sick bastards.


End file.
